Long Phrase Poems
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His buddies called him Brant, he was the strongest man
made of solid muscles and he seemed mighty;
he became a fugitive after he raped two women
and robbed to get money for his coke and whiskey.
One was his best friend whom he killed for a grudge he had,
and hiding his face, he pulled down his hat and felt afraid.
There was a reward for anyone who knew his whereabouts
or acquaintances, rumors attested that he must have escaped
to Mexico to join banditos who raped, killed, and robbed;
an American guy saw him in Acapulco kissing pretty chicas*.
He thought that nobody was looking for him and he laughed
in that noisy bar drinking Tequila* until he was drunk and sad,
but forgetting faces drenched in blood is pure madness;
he wore a sombrero* hat and mingled with friendly locals.
Marcela was not his favorite girl, she refused to sit in his lap
while he smoked Tabamex Toro;* he whispered, " Te adoro, mi querida*. "
And disliking the short phrase, she bit on his scarred, dry lip;
" Ah, hermosa, suave!* " He quickly reacted to the revengeful Marcela.
He didn't know that was a trap and be captured him by the FBI agents,
but he suddenly got up, slapped her in the face with murderous hate;
Marcela hit the floor and died instantly, " Bandido*, bandido! That's
my daughter! " The dark-skin man howled. He drew his gun with haste.
He shut him three times, Brant fell down and profusely bled from his legs,
" You are under arrest! " One of the agents said cuffing him with ease,
" We'll take you back to Texas and you'll pay for the rapes and killings!"
Every rapist and killer should know that restlessness allows no inner peace! "
* Chicas: girls
* Tequila: Mexican liquor
* Sombrero: Mexican Hat
* Tabamex Toro: Mexican cigars
* Te adoro, mi querida: I adore you, my dear
* Ah, hermosa, suave: Ah, beautiful take it slow
* Bandido: bandit
In the beginning,
there was no evidence he existed
except my breath still stutters
at the phrase weight check.
Dr. Wilson wore red socks,
offered sample packs in a manila envelope,
told me I was pretty and shrinking
in exactly the right way.
Said we’d do a quick exam—
just routine.
Hands under the gown,
thumbs on the outer edges like he was
measuring range or resistance.
He never said breast.
He never said anything.
Just held each one
like it was a question
and waited for me
not to answer.
I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t leave.
I said thank you.
Took the pills and the compliment
in the same swallow.
At home I bragged
that my jeans fit like an apology.
There’s no evidence he existed
besides my body asking
how many parts it must offer
to earn approval.
Except every man in red socks
makes me want to run—
throw up about something
I’ll pathologize about later,
by myself.
Even though it began
with his own being
irresponsible with power.
There's a day coming
when it won't be like this.
hear the phrase all of the time,
‘It doesn’t fit the narrative,’
used in news, academia,
and in political missives,
a phrase that I find curious
since so many do seem to yell
that the narrative they’ve chosen
outweighs even the world itself.
Like Marx’s view on history,
and the old ‘progress’ fallacy,
this thought that we must have stages,
advance through them relentlessly,
but history won’t hold them up,
it doesn’t go by what they say,
there is no path man is bound to,
just crazy lurchings everyday.
Did not 2016 prove this?
The narrative was she would win,
but things didn’t turn out that way,
and folks went nuts, thought it a sin.
Screamed about it for four years,
it wasn’t supposed to happen, no!
Despite the fact, scanning the past,
that this is how things often go.
I think, perhaps, the first mistake
you see in the narrative crowd,
is simple overreduction,
to pair all human beings down.
We saw this in Collectivists,
and their misplaced faith in ‘the group,’
but others do this trick as well,
simplification hides the truth.
Humans are a chaos system,
even taken one at time,
sure, we do have our old routines,
but every so often you’ll find
we do something that makes no sense,
that no other man could predict,
that unseen burst of randomness,
is so often what makes us tick.
Expand that to the whole species,
and you see chaos written large,
chaos actors interacting,
I think that it's a stretch too far
for any human mind to grasp,
to think you could is a conceit,
too many factors change too fast
to be forseen reliably.
Add to that the physical world
is a chaos system as well,
and we’re all stuck living with it,
this makes it really hard to tell
what causes this, or changes that,
to our mind it seems randomness,
it’s plain to see that narrative
cannot encompass all of this.
Our brain simply can’t organize
or relate to something that vast,
we simplify to understand,
and there’s a great danger in that.
Some start to think the narrative
is objective reality,
and act as if denying that
is a troubling perfidy.
But when has the world ever cared
about the thoughts we apes create?
The world is not a narrative,
that is a fact we can’t escape...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
...But his lust for life remained unfulfilled,
’till one day he ran into One-Eyed Bill,
Leader of a group of rough-hewn men,
Grant decided to throw in with them,
They roved the territory, on the prowl,
For ill-gotten gains won by acts foul,
The rush of the hunt, the thrill of the steal,
Doing whatever, whenever you feel,
Made Grant wonder aloud with this phrase,
“Do I really want to settle down someday?”
Until one day when a bank job went wrong,
They were chased by a posse, thirty-strong,
Riding for hours, they found themselves in
The dead-end of a blind, desert canyon,
There the posse closed and opened fire,
A short, lopsided fight did transpire,
Outnumbered five-to-one, impossible odds,
Even for criminals good with a rod,
As Grant fell dying, the sheriff did proclaim:
“We’ll settle those thieves down today!”
Grant was buried there, on that spot,
In a shallow grave covered in rocks,
One day his lover came out all alone,
Carrying with her a small funeral stone.
Said,“I guess I was never to be his wife,
He was too taken by living his fast life.”
Then she placed the stone at his graveside,
Across the front of it she’d had inscribed:
‘Beneath this rock, my sweet Grant does lay,
He has finally settled down this day.”
as a sequence
Bella
He
opened
the window-
in streamed his first
love
with
flowers,
dressed
in white-
she haunted his
art.
The
eyes show
subjection,
melancholy
and
a
resigned
acceptance-
yet beauty shines
through.
Ekphrasis lanterne after
Head of a ***** by Watteau
THE WIFE
Of
Mahler,
Gropius
Franz Werfel-
filled life with her
song-
she
gave Klimt
her first kiss-
but like a Strauss
waltz
her
affairs
of the heart--
never lasted
long.
LANTERNE ALMANAC
WINTER
in
anger-
whips up the waves,
pounds the shingle
shore
SPRING
in
action-
brings to life
and feathers its
nest
SUMMER
so
lazy-
rests the soul
and flowers the
land
AUTUMN
so
mellow-
scents and sounds
in the harvest
home.
WITHERED
On
the verge
of heaven,
'ere the petals
bloom-
On
the verge
of heaven,
faith still sings the
tune
An easter lanterne inspred by a phrase from Michael Bruce9 the noted hymn writer
ENIGMA CODEX
When
all is
left hidden-
the poetic
is
more
easy
to discern-
buried within
hints.
Lanterne- Fall quaternion
Autumn
in the air-
drops of saguine
red
Thin
spires
in the breeze-
tasselled teasels
touch
Lost
in the
soft mist of
dawn
Rain
dropped leaves
spotted gold
mould in the
dew
we writers strive to achieve our best
to bring forth what percolates within our breast
giving rise to thoughts that are eager to be
placed on paper for the world to see
at times we struggle as if climbing walls
other times we buckle when we hear the call
crying out from deep down in our bones
for sweet release, to find a new home
for the words we hear in a muffled voice
conflicted by each and every choice
of letter, syllable, comma, phrase
waiting to appear on a bare new page
we know it's hiding in that writer's womb
a seed of surprise waiting to bloom
any moment now, from dawn to dusk
pondering, percolating is a must
I blink at light that isn’t there,
And speak to shadows on the stair.
My meals are clocks, my sleep is wrong—
I hum one phrase all evening long.
The mirror twitches when I grin,
A second self beneath my skin.
I file my dreams in numbered rows,
And tell the ants what no one knows.
I weep when spoons are out of place,
And fear the kindness in a face.
My hands repeat what they forget,
They write confessions I’ve not met.
Voices dance in copper wire,
They chant in sync, they don’t retire.
I laugh too loud at silence deep,
I wake while others softly sleep—
And swear the clouds know where I’ve been.
Take a look my Love
do you see how the diamonds of our dreams
are burning so brightly and violently
silhouetting the lips of our wishes against the walls of ancient Latin gold
in the sacred villa of Love's Kingdom where there is no escape
where rescue is unwanted,
where we survive and grow stronger in the gymnasium of passion's glory
did you notice that above the rose vine gateway
the phrase Sancta Simplicitas is carved deeply into the black and white marble,
do you feel the crimson love stress within your throat,
do you taste your soul's intestinal fortitude
surfacing on your spiked tongue
as we wrestle eachother ruthlessly, like champions that die in defeat,
moral armbars, clean elbow strikes to the jaw of flippancy,
pressure point pinches to the arteries of our inhibitions,
intellectual left and right hooks landing on the cheeks of our wisdom,
poetic hip throws to the mat of hard lust
defiant choke holds of love, flawless in tight execution
penetrating the blood brain barrier with the ecstasy of warrior fervor,
and as we lay sweatied and spent on the ground of this rough enlightenment
we look at eachother admiringly and realize like young romance
that we live for a single, shared purpose
to teach love what love means,
If they ever say diamonds to diamonds, dust to dust
they'll be speaking in bereavement of our beauty and bravery, of our best,
and I won't allow that,
as I know damn well
that you will not tolerate such misgivings either my Love,
instead,
we shall build a war machine of divine desire
that will destroy the proven walls of conventional psychology
erect a fortress of love that can withstand total despair,
and they will know the strength of our diamond love
as it guides the lost and lonely
through chaotic oceans of heart hysteria as with us,
no one will ever say our love died,
because we fought for it to live my Love -
Sancta Simplicitas is an ancient Latin phrase meaning...Holy Simplicity...
J.A.B.
Gathering in one spot cover then and withdraw from the lands
Canto COUNTING
Continues…..
…………………………………………………………………………………………………
………………………………………………………………………next chapter…..
Now day six brings us to the creation of land animals and finally humans yes but uh this is where I think things go
2:53
2 minutes, 53 seconds
beyond just a quinological account okay what's your take on the significance of humans being created in the image of God
3:02
3 minutes, 2 seconds
as stated in this is where we move from a simple creation story to a profound philosophical
3:09
3 minutes, 9 seconds
concept yeah the phrase in the image of God has been debated for centuries but what's clear is that it elevates
3:18
3 minutes, 18 seconds
yeah Humanity's position within creation right it implies a unique connection to the Divine suggesting that we possess
3:27
3 minutes, 27 seconds
right of God's Essence so it's not just about physical resemblance but about something deeper like our capacity for
3:34
3 minutes, 34 seconds
reason creativity or perhaps even love exactly yeah it suggests that we're not just another species right but uh are
3:43
3 minutes, 43 seconds
imbued with a spark of the Divine setting us apart from the rest of creation and this idea of being in the image of God right directly connects to
3:52
3 minutes, 52 seconds
the next big concept dominion and stewardship verse 28 of the Ethiopian Bible states that humans or to rule over
4:01
4 minutes, 1 second
creation mhm yeah this is where interpretations can get absolutely really interesting what didn't you say
4:08
4 minutes, 8 seconds
absolutely it's a statement that has been used to justify both exploitation and responsible care for the environment
NOT VOID CONTINUE SO...
9/3/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026©
When writing love poems to a poet
spray them with your scent;
When writing love poems to a poet
every word should linger;
A whisper that you can’t forget;
When writing love poems to a poet
dig deep inside your soul;
When writing love poems to a poet
know they see every empty space
of every phrase of your feather quill;
When writing love poems to a poet
be mindful of your energy;
When writing love poems to a poet
understand they feel the art of font;
Details are what they notice instantly;
Show that you look under the surface
translating metaphors and riddles;
Explore their depth enjoy drowning;
Turn them on with complex puzzles,
when writing love poems to a poet.